


The Heart of a Talaxian

by JBHart



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:17:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBHart/pseuds/JBHart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Survival was a game. From the episode "Faces".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart of a Talaxian

The Talaxian followed behind the Vidiian guards on their march to organ processing, and he still could not believe what he saw. Their victim, the one the humans called Durst, held his head high, as if he were on his way to meet some great dignitary, a being who might have enough clout to spring him from this Vidiian trap. He was fooling himself. To these butchers, he was no more than fodder for their organ banks—all neatly packaged in one body. The Vidiians would soon fix that.

These humans. They were all insane. Holding on to their pride and their pitiful hope that somehow they would escape. Other beings possessed this useless kind of mindset, but they never lasted long. Sooner or later, they all perished beneath the Vidiian scalpels.

Survival was a game. Durst didn’t know this. The Talaxian had tried to tell him once, but obviously the fool didn’t listen. The only way to win the game was to play the game, and the Talaxian was a very good player.

By following Durst down this corridor, he was giving himself one more advantage over his fellow slaves. He was making himself an indispensable member of the Vidiian workforce. Call it an apprenticeship of sorts in the profession of organ harvesting. The Vidiians said he had an aptitude for it. They said he would be learning from the best.

If the Talaxian were successful, he would survive his crewmates by much more than the mere six years he had already spent in these tunnels, and his life would improve a notch or two. That’s what he told himself. He only wished he could convince his body of what his mind already knew, but he couldn’t get his knees to stop quaking and his heart to stop racing.

When they arrived at the end of the tunnel, a door hissed open. The Talaxian perceived the faint odor of decay on the cool air that billowed out into the corridor—the remnant of over a thousand harvestings. Even the antiseptic layer of disinfectant was not strong enough to wipe out the stench completely.

Durst moaned and shrank back, but the guards took hold of him and forced him inside to the center slab where the processing would take place.

You’ll die quickly, human.

It’ll all be over soon.

The Talaxian was there on business, but his eyes did not want to see. The struggling human made him want to run. He shot a frightened glance back to the door, his legs prepared to bolt, but he caught himself. Was he really thinking of escape like a foolish human? He drew in a deep breath and straightened.

Escape isn’t the game, Talaxian. You’d best remember that.

He crossed the room. Sulan, Chief Surgeon of the Vidiian Sodality, stood at the far side, his hands moving fluidly over a console. Beside him was a worktable of finely honed surgical instruments. These were the tools that had already sliced through sinew and bone, had already been coated countless times with the blood of unwilling donors, yet now they sparkled like freshly cut gemstones.

The slave folded his trembling hands together and cleared his throat, a timid and raspy sound squeezed out. “H-how might I help you, Sulan?” he stammered. His heart had slipped into his throat.

Sulan's did not look up. He stood in profile, his mottled, patched and peeling flesh fascinated the Talaxian. Its gruesome and sickly appearance had strangely become the macabre ideal on this hellish planet. To look like a Vidiian, meant freedom, but the Talaxian was still repulsed and did not venture closer. Sulan gestured at a syringe that lay amongst the surgical tools. “Sedate the human,” he said.

The Talaxian stepped forward and cautiously plucked the syringe from the table. He recognized the deep blue color of its contents and sniffed at it to be sure.

Spicy. Sweet.

Yes, he was well-acquainted with this “medication”. Down in the tunnels, the workers would barter a day’s food rations, sometimes two for just a few drops. What wouldn’t they give for the amount the Talaxian now held in his hands? His mouth began to water, and he longed to plunge the needle into his own body. One jab would wipe out all of his anxiety.

He glanced over at Durst. The human was now strapped prone to the slab. His breathing was rapid and shallow and he murmured to himself. It was a mournful sound that most creatures made when given enough time to contemplate their own deaths.

Though the Talaxian did not pity him, he was curious. Durst was a healthy specimen, and from all appearances, he was in the prime of his life. If kept alive, he would provide many years of hard work in the tunnels. Harvesting from such a donor was not in the Vidiians’ self-interests.

Before the Talaxian could think about his words, they spilled out. “Sulan,” he said, “You only harvest from the dead and the dying. Why have you chosen this human?”

The Vidiian pierced him with his cold blue eyes. “Do as you’re told, Talaxian, or we will find another use for you.”

The threat hit its mark, and the Talaxian slinked away. He would do as Sulan commanded or find himself at the sharp end of his scalpel. He turned to the human.

Durst lifted his head when the Talaxian came near.

“I’m not surprised that you would help them,” Durst said. His hands fisted, and he jerked at the restraints that held him down. “No wonder you survived for so long! Are you going to do the gutting yourself?”

“No, I—”

A glob of spit hit the Talaxian’s eye, and he flinched.

Durst’s lips twisted in a half smile of satisfaction, and his head dropped back.

“I’m here to help you,” the Talaxian said. He wiped his face on his sleeve. “One shot of this and you will be the happiest dead man in these tunnels.”

Durst’s eyes flicked to the syringe in the Talaxian’s hand and then back up again. His defiance wavered. “Don’t. Please,” he said. “When the time comes, I want to be coherent. I want to look that Vidiian butcher in the eye, let him know what kind of being he’s dealing with. I want him to think twice before he murders another human.”

He didn’t realize what he was asking for. “You’ll be awake when the harvesting begins,” the Talaxian warned. “Once the process is underway, you’ll beg for this kindness, but it’ll be too late. You’ll suffer a slow and agonizing death. Is that what you want?”

“I want my friends to be safe.”

“Human, that’s an impossibility,” the Talaxian replied. “They will both end up on this slab sooner or later.”

Durst groaned and squeezed his eyes closed, seemed to pray to some foresaken diety. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and spoke. “You’re going to see them again.”

“Yes,” replied the Talaxian. “I imagine I will.”

“Then do one thing,” Durst whispered. “My communicator. Will you take it to them?”

“What for?”

“It has my final log recorded in it. My last words to my friends and family. I want them to know what happened to me.”

This piqued the Talaxian’s interest. This device might prove useful when he went back into the tunnels. “Where is it?”

The human indicated with a flick of his wrist. The Talaxian reached into the pocket and pulled out the device. “This little gadget? It doesn’t look like much.” He gave it a once over and frowned in disappointment. Useless. “I couldn’t barter even a single slice of bread for this puny thing.”

“Give it to Paris and Torres!” Durst exclaimed. “It’s all I have left!”

The Talaxian slipped it into his own pocket. There was no use in making promises to a dead man, when the living were so much needier. “It’s out of your hands now, human.”

“Damn you!” Durst twisted against the bindings. “Have you no compassion? Or have the Vidiians already harvested your heart?”

The Talaxian’s throat involuntarily tightened. “Compassion?” he retorted. “I’ll show it to you.” He lifted the syringe and plunged it deep into the human’s chest.

Durst wailed and fought, but the drug was quick-acting and soon his twisting and pulling against the restraints diminished. His suffering was over.

“You see, human?” the Talaxian muttered. “I do have a heart.”

\----------

Durst was dead. Back in the tunnels after the harvesting, the Talaxian worked harder than he had ever worked before. He pounded the stone walls with his pickax until his arms were too sore and tired to lift the tool anymore.

A guard stood by watching him intently for a long while. “Take a break, Talaxian,” he said. “You’ve done the work of two laborers this shift.”

“Watch me, I’ll do the work of three,” the Talaxian made a move to drive the ax into the wall again.

“Break!” ordered the guard.

The Talaxian dropped the tool and raised his hands in submission. Rubbing his sore muscles, he sat down on a nearby boulder. He didn’t want to be still. It would give him time to think about Durst, and he didn’t want to do that.

“It was necessary,” he muttered to himself. “I was ensuring my own survival.” He threw a pebble hard against the wall. Saying the words aloud didn’t make them ring true.

He pulled from his pocket the device that he had taken from Durst and turned it over in his palm. Such a small remnant that spoke so much for its owner. The tapering design was sleek and efficient, the mark of beings who continually looked to the future. From what he could remember, Talaxians had that same quality.

He was about to pocket the device again when he noticed a crescent of dried blood on the base of his thumbnail. Durst was still with him, and without the steady pounding of the pickax, the Talaxian couldn’t stop the memories of the harvesting from flooding back.

Under the influence of the drug, Durst had been passive, and when Sulan cut the first incision down his victim’s chest, the human smiled and told them that he didn’t feel any pain. Sulan then conversed with the human as if harvesting his organs were a routine procedure. Perhaps it was to Sulan. He had been in the business of harvesting organs for so long that he was no longer capable of remorse. The phage had stripped the Vidiian of his soul, and in a way, it had stripped the Talaxian of his. He began to wonder if this game he was playing was not a game of survival after all, but of dignity.

Everything in his life was going fine until this happened, until Durst stripped away the protective layers the Talaxian had used to armor himself. He was exposed. He was a sham and he was afraid, but most of all he was angry. Angry at Durst for reminding him of his conscience, and angry at himself for forgetting he ever had one.

“Hey! What’s that?” A scratchy voice beside him asked.

The Talaxian looked up. The slave who had spoken was carrying water sacks for thirsty workers. He was slight of build, and the sacks bowed his back almost double.

“It’s nothing.” The Talaxian slipped the device into his pocket.

“I want it.”

“Give me some water.”

“Give me your trinket first.”

The Talaxian jumped up and shoved the miscreant against the wall. Water spilled out onto the floor. He grabbed a bag and poured the remaining water over his hands. The blood must come off.

“You’re wasting water!” The creature leaped onto his back. “Stop! Stop!”

The Talaxian twisted to fling this troublemaker off and suffered a sharp blow to his ribs. Both of the struggling slaves tumbled to the floor.

“Back to the barracks with you,” said the guard who towered over them. “Tomorrow, you’ll get no water rations.”

The guard’s gun was armed and ready to fire.

“Shoot me,” said the Talaxian, and he closed his eyes.

The Vidiian laughed. “Fool! Back to the barracks and sleep it off.”

The Talaxian went along quietly down the twisted corridors to the barracks, not saying a word to the guard who walked with him. He didn’t want to be seen and he especially didn’t want to go back to the barracks where he shared his cell with the other two humans. How could he look them in the eyes?

When he arrived at the barracks he slipped in and climbed up to his bunk without a word or even a glance. He was dead tired, but could not close his eyes.

He fingered the device in his pocket. The only thing he could do now was get rid of it, but he couldn’t confront Paris after what he had done. Durst was already singled out to be killed. It would have happened no matter what the Talaxian did, though he had feeling that Paris would blame him for his friend’s death. Maybe the Talaxian deserved whatever punishment the human would inflict on him. Maybe he should have offered himself to the Vidiians instead of Durst, but he had been too much of a coward. He had always been a coward.

He rolled over and watched the humans secretly. They sat across from him on the bunk on the far side of the cell. Torres quietly brushed tears from her eyes, and Paris murmured comforting words that the Talaxian couldn’t hear. He longed for what they had together. There had been a time once when the Talaxian had friends he could comfort and who would lend comfort, but that was a lifetime ago. He had learned to fend for himself since then and had lost his pride in the process. He no longer deserved friends. He no longer deserved life.

But he still knew what was right, even if he didn’t always choose it. Durst should have his last wish granted. Paris would likely kill the Talaxian if he confessed what he had done, but it was a punishment he had to risk.

He sat up. “Paris,” he began, his voice was barely there. “I need to tell you something—”

Suddenly the doors hissed open at the end of the corridor. Footsteps clanged on the grating that led to their barracks.

The Talaxian retreated, far to the dark shadows and watched, horrified. Sulan had come, and he was well pleased with himself. He had taken more from Durst than the Talaxian had anticipated, the most recognizable part of the man.

A ghost had appeared in their cell.

Torres screamed, and withdrew to a corner, covering her face with her hands.

At once, Paris was on his feet. His face twisted in pain, then shifted to fury. “Murderer!” he growled. He launched at the Vidiian and swung a hard fist.

Sulan recoiled, and when the guard fired his weapon, Paris crumpled.

The Talaxian was barely breathing.

“Then I take it, the transplant is a success,” Sulan remarked, breathless. “I needed to be sure.” He looked at the dark shadow that was the Talaxian. “You recognize me too, don’t you, Talaxian?”

He laughed softly and dabbed at the blood oozing from a deep cut at the corner of his mouth. Paris had struck a point for Durst. The Talaxian smiled.

When Sulan left them, the Talaxian sprang from his corner and studied the human. He held a palm over Paris’ mouth and nose.

He glanced up at the cringing female. “Don’t worry. He’s still breathing,” the Talaxian assured her. “He’s only stunned.”

Torres came out and knelt down beside Paris. She placed a gentle hand on his forehead. “Why is this happening?”

The Talaxian knew that she was only speaking to herself at that moment, but he answered her. “There is no why. It just is,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the silver device.

Torres watched him with curious eyes. “How did you—”

“Please, don’t question,” the Talaxian said, and the tears gather in his own eyes. He placed the device in her open palm and closed her fingers around it. “It’s just better this way. You won’t forget your friends as I have forgotten mine.”

He stood and made an announcement loudly enough for the barracks guard to hear. “Take me back to the tunnels! I think I have another shift left in me! Come on!”

The guard grumbled, but the Talaxian knew he wouldn’t refuse the request. They always needed workers in the tunnels.

Torres stared up at him, her eyes searching his.

He turned away. Whatever she looked for in his face, he hoped she wouldn’t find it.

“What is your name, Talaxian?” she asked.

The Talaxian raised his brows, and then returned her stare. No one had asked him that question in all the years he had been here. “I was once called Gim,” he said, and then he smiled. I am Gim.

The corners of her mouth tilted upward briefly in soft gratitude, and then she turned back to her fallen comrade.

Enduring all of these years in the tunnels, Gim had only thought of himself and his own survival—until Durst came along and ruined everything.

He had no choice but to help the humans now.

“Damn you, Durst,” he muttered, his sorrow nearly choking him.

Now he knew he had a heart.


End file.
